I’m not known for my silence. My laugh is typically the loudest in the room; my friends and family know my opinion on everything; and most folks think my life is an open book. But for 17 years I kept a secret—a silence that was not broken until last year when I finally shared my abortion story. This year, as we begin 2017 with an anti-choice administration and Congress, the 44th anniversary of the seminal Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision is taking on a new meaning for me.

Last April, I attended a U.S. House of Representatives hearing on a proposed law that would ban abortion if the person seeking an abortion was doing it because of the fetus’s gender or race. This law would force physicians to inquire as to the patient’s reasons for abortion, creating distrust in the sacred doctor-patient relationship, and would reinforce dangerous racial stereotypes—such as that Asians prefer sons and that people of color, particularly black women, cannot be trusted to make health care decisions for themselves.

At the time, I was a federal policy counsel for the Center for Reproductive Rights, but I was not only there for work. I was there to support my friend, Miriam Yeung, the executive director of National Asian Pacific American Women’s Forum and only pro-choice witness at the hearing. I knew I wanted to be there not only to hear her testimony, but for her to see my face and know she wasn’t alone. It turned out that she helped me realize that I was not alone.

Yeung explained to the committee that the “bill represent[ed] a duplicitous attempt to address racial and gender discrimination, while actually intending to chip away at abortion rights.” The majority of Americans believe that “[t]he decision to seek abortion care should be up to a woman, her doctor, and her family, and not politicians.” She noted that one in three women will have an abortion before the age of 45, but black women are five times more likely to have an abortion than white women “because of a well-documented disproportionate lack of access to contraception.” And though the insidious bill is wrongly framed as helping black women, she said that the “legislation does nothing to address the root causes of unintended pregnancies, such as the dearth of reproductive health clinics in black neighborhoods, economic insecurity, or historically rooted inequalities within these communities.”

It was the fact that Yeung had to defend the autonomy of, respect for, and decision-making of women of color that struck me most poignantly. She and I both grew up in New York City—Yeung an immigrant from a very young age, and I a first-generation American. Though our families were from different continents, our Chinese and Guyanese parents each immigrated to Brooklyn in search of the American dream. We’re told education is the silver bullet for economic security and success in America. Yeung and I are both highly educated, but we found ourselves in the same room having to defend our constitutionally protected health care decisions to white men with less educational pedigree than us. I was incensed.

Toward the end of the hearing, Catherine Davis, a founding member of the National Black ProLife Coalition mischaracterized black women as victims of a Planned Parenthood scheme to eradicate black people. Yeung succinctly responded, “Black women choose abortion.”

When she said that, I wanted to jump up and say, “Yes! I am a black woman who chose to have an abortion!” Planned Parenthood didn’t bust down my door when my pregnancy test turned positive, strap me down, and end my pregnancy. My boyfriend supported my decision, and I went to a Planned Parenthood in downtown Manhattan for a medication abortion, where I received competent, compassionate care. At Planned Parenthood, I was never coerced, I was never shamed, and I was never made to feel guilty for my choice.

In the 17 years since my abortion, no one beyond the Planned Parenthood staff, my boyfriend, and my two best friends knew I had an abortion. I grew up in a fiercely feminist and pro-choice household, yet I could not bring myself to tell my parents because of the outside stigma I had internalized. Externally, the world told me that abortion was a sin, that it was a “problem” that “loose girls” got themselves into. And decent people never spoke of it. And even though my parents taught me abortion was merely a form of health care, West Indian girls weren’t supposed to have sex. I was ashamed. All the sacrifices they had made for my education would be for nothing. “Smart girls” who had access to birth control and in-depth knowledge of conception didn’t get pregnant at 19—or so I thought.

Stigma kept me silent, but the racist comments in the hearing felt like a personal attack and made me want to shout. And now I shout whenever I can. My abortion allowed me to continue down the path I had set for myself with my parents’ support. I would not be the successful woman I am today without it, and I don’t want to begin to imagine what my life, or any other person’s life, would be like without access to care. Access to abortion is crumbling across the nation—we all must do our part to sound the alarm. In response to the hearing, I co-authored a letter, signed by people of color who have had abortions, to correct the record and the offensive things said at the hearing. At a rally before the Supreme Court issued its decision in the historic Whole Woman’s Health case striking down many of Texas’ anti-abortion restrictions, I got on the microphone and told everyone I was a black woman who'd had an abortion.

As we celebrate the 44th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision, we may be also watching its decline. Our nation has a president who has not only promised to appoint Supreme Court justices to overturn the decision, but also appoint a cabinetpoised to roll back civil rights. If that wasn't bad enough, we also have an anti-abortion Congress that has already introduced multiple bills limiting access to abortion, including a near-total ban. The promise of Roe has never been at such risk, which means it’s more important than ever to be vocal and defend our rights. I commit to using my privilege as an independent woman to speak for those who do not feel safe to share how abortion access positively impacted their lives.

Kristine A. Kippins is a constitutional lawyer and an abortion storyteller with We Testify, a leadership program of the National Network of Abortion Funds.